


146 - Old Scars, New Babies, & Dad Van

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Dad Van, F/M, Reader-Insert, body pos, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 10:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17405183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompts “a fluffy fic where the reader is nervous about getting undressed around Van because of their old self harm scars and just Van being comforting about it?” and “Being pregnant and uncomfortable in your skin and Van reassuring you/being a sweetheart” and “a fic about trying for a baby with van for ages and it never succeeds until about a year later and you’re both over the moon and he’s picking out baby clothes and helping you with everything being super protective and so on”





	146 - Old Scars, New Babies, & Dad Van

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: The fic contains discussion of self-harm and imagery of cutting and scars.

One: Scars.

Cut to rays of sunshine warming skin. Fluffy dust particles floating through the air. Hands reaching out to try to catch them. Unsuccessful. Cut to lazy kisses. Teeth knocking against each other. Lukewarm tea. A boy in black, full of love. Cut to romance and dates and happy parents. Jump straight to that part of the story. Nevermind the years before. The prologue. Long and painful. Images of red dripping to the bathroom floor. Seeping through clothes in lines. Ignore all of that. Doctors. Psychologists. Medication. Late nights. Healing skin. Doesn't matter. Cut to Van McCann. Human perfection. In love and loved. That's where the good bits are.

By the time Van walked into your life in a cloud of music and dope and warmth, you were well on your way to recovery. You'd told him about before, about the depression. He was good and understood and didn't say stupid shit like 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.' Instead, he just listened and asked if there was anything he needed to do to keep you safe and happy. You told him he was already doing it.

A drunk night out reached its pinnacle in your bedroom. His hands were under your shirt, and you were undressing him as fast as you could. Then, as his hands brushed over your thigh, you sprung apart from him. You moved with such force you threw yourself against your wardrobe and felt the handle jab into your back. Van looked at you with confusion. 

"What…?"

You knew it was inevitable that Van would see the crisscrossed mess of white and pale pink scar tissue. Talks of houses and marriage and babies already existed. He was moving fast, but still wasn't keeping up with you.

"I… um… The scars…" you said, chewing your lip and twisting your fingers into each other.

"Come here," he said and held his arms out. Like you'd done a million times before, you collapsed into them. You rested your head on his bare chest, arms folded between him and you. "Listen to me, Y/N. I love you. All of you. Every freckle. Every hair. Every curve. Every scar. Yeah? Don't love that you did it, because it meant you were hurting. But they're there, and we gotta be okay with that. So, tell me what you need me to do. If you want me to ignore them, I will, but I don't think that's a good thing to do,"

"What would you know," you muttered.

"Not a lot 'bout any of this. But I know I love you, so… let me?"

And you did. You laid down on the bed and closed your eyes as Van undressed you. Fists clung tight to the bed sheets, you shook as he traced the scars and pressed kisses to them. He rested his forehead on your thigh, over the mess, and whispered "You're okay now. I got you."

 

Two: Stretchmarks.

Hushed and happy. A decision made in conversation. A baby! After, though. Fast forward. Cut to store-bought pregnancy tests. Van behind the door, knocking. Two lines. Positive. Another test. Positive. An appointment with a doctor. Positive. Cut to three months in. Safe now. Announcing to the band, to friends, to family. Cut to Bernie crying. That's the part you want. Fast forward through the thirteen months of trying. No luck. This time, nevermind the hysterical crying. The "what's wrong with me?" from you. Then from him. Doesn't matter. Cut to Van McCann. Future father. Love of your life. To outlines of tiny hands visible in you. Creepy alien baby jokes. Cut to good.

As your belly ballooned and your body began to rapidly change, you could feel the hot stickiness of self-consciousness coming back. It had taken you a while to get used to living in your skin, and Van was fundamental to that lesson. But the way your feet swelled, and the changing colour of parts of your body, and the stretchmarks… the fucking stretchmarks… you'd have to go through it all over again. And with the sleepless nights and kicking baby, maybe you didn't have the energy to do that.

You felt guilty about assigning any bad to the pregnancy. It had taken so long to get to that point, after all. You'd never seen anything as joyful as Van when the doctor confirmed what the many, many home tests said. He'd held in his emotion through all those trials in case they were wrong. Getting his hopes up could only spell pain. Then, he was allowed to be happy. He was allowed to envision himself as a father for the first real time in his life. Telling him about the bad side to it all would be unfair. So, you started to dress and bathe in the dark. Ducking away from Van's touch and wearing too many layers of clothing, you thought you were handling the situation.

Anyone who has to say to themselves 'it's going to be okay' ten times over in hysterical whispering, probably knows it is not going to be okay. Secrets don't make friends. Van, soul mate, father of your child, your everything, knew when you were keeping them and he knew how to get you to spill them out all over the kitchen table. Be direct. Be honest. Don't fuck about.

"Y/N. I'm worried about you," he said sitting opposite and pushing a mug of tea towards you. He'd replaced all the good black tea with weird herbal mixtures that the internet told him were safe for pregnant people. You brought the mug closer and smelt it. Ginger. "You're being all… I don't know. Distant? What's wrong?" All the years with Van taught you that saying 'nothing' wasn't going to work. You sighed and looked at him.

"My body is changing,"

"Yeah. You got a human in it. Bound to change,"

"I know. But, like, I just didn't think about how I'd feel about the changes," you said with a shrug, looking into your tea.

"And you don't feel good 'bout them?" You shook your head. "Any in particular?"

"Um… I think… The stuff that will go back to normal I can self-talk through. Some of it I can't,"

"The permanent stuff? Like stretchmarks?"

"Yeah,"

"Didn't know you even had them," Van said, and you could hear that it hurt him to know you'd been changing without him knowing. That your body was (again, although under wildly different circumstances) being scarred and it was hurting you.

"Mmmm. I know,"

"Come on then," he said standing.

"No, Van. I can't-"

"You can't what? You gonna hide yourself for the rest of our lives? This is the same as your scars, yeah? You think I care about these things but I don't. Like a band-aid. Just gotta get on with it. So, show me."

You looked up at him and knew he was right. You followed him quietly through the cottage to the bedroom. The moment echoed with past trauma. It fucked you up that it felt like showing him the self-inflicted scars. Your baby was not the same as your depression. Yet, they both were leaving patterns on your skin that you didn't want. It was really fucking you up.

Van laid you down and undressed you. Smiling as he kissed your belly. "Hello, baby," he whispered to it. Van's hands ran down your sides, across your legs, and settled on your hips. The stretch marks were red then, but would heal white and silver and shiny. It was textured, and Van's fingers could run through the trenches of your skin. "Okay, first of all, you realise they literally look like tiger stripes, right?" He kissed them as he waited for you to reply, which you didn't. "No?" He looked up at you and grinned. You gave him nothing. "Right. Well, I think it's cool. It's like in them tribes when a warrior gets scarred 'cause he is a man or whatever. But you're getting these badass tiger stripes because you're literally making a human,"

"Fuck, Van. Tribe? You can't just… I think that's racist…"

"What?" he replied, voice high pitched. "No? I didn't mean… Anyway. If you look closely-"

"I'm not looking closely," you interrupted.

"If!" he continued, loudly, "you look closely, in the red you can see all these little lines and shapes and shit. Like, pretty patterns. It's really cool. And also!" His voice was quickening in enthusiasm. The longer Van focused on the stretch marks, the more good he saw. "Kind of like lightning bolts, aren't they?" He kissed them again and sat up. You looked at him. "Y/N. I know you don't like them, and lots of things 'bout you, but I promise I love it all more than enough for both of us. All these things just prove that you're strong. You're gonna be okay."

You started to cry. All the worries you had about your body and your baby and motherhood dropped into the forefront of your mind and you couldn't silence them. You told Van everything, and he listened intently. That alone was enough to settle you. His kisses and his touches and his honest and pure love for every inch of your skin was enough.

 

Three: Childbirth.

For the last time, skip the screaming. Cut to a clean and healthy baby. Soft blanket. Already-open eyes. Teeny tiny fingers. An indecisive conversation about names. Cut to your little baby boy meeting his family. Tears of joy. Pats on backs and Larry hugging Van and not letting go. Shopping trips after the hospital. Already stocked, but never enough. Little onesies with kitten ears. Cut to holding your child and rocking him to sleep. His father at your knees singing lullabies. Fast forward through the hours of labour. The blood. The guts. The pain. Nevermind the pushing and panting. White knuckles. Mouth like a sailor. Doesn't matter. Cut to Van McCann, a father. To beautiful motherhood.

You caught your reflection in the bathroom mirror as you stepped out of the shower. Already your stretchmarks were turning silver. And your scars, well you hardly paid any attention to them at all anymore. Your body had morphed. Hips wide and soft rolls. You were a mother, and your body gave you that ability. A small smile and you got dressed as you listened to Van play peek-a-boo with Quinn.

In the living room, you stood next to Van. "Maybe we just bring him with us?" he asked.

"Van. We'll only be gone a couple of hours. He's going to be fine,"

"Don't trust me, mate?" Larry asked as he picked Quinn up. He was six months old already.

"Last time you babysat he got that cut on his head!" Van replied.

"It was a scratch on his chin and he did that with his own nails," you defended Larry. Van was fiercely protective of Quinn, and convincing him to take a couple hours with you to go shopping was a miracle. You had to bribe him with the promise that you'd visit the baby store. Van wanted to get some baby sized Converses because he'd seen a "punk baby" on the internet and "had to have one."

In the store, you followed Van around and let him run wild. He knew the exact measurements of Quinn's small but quickly growing body. The shop assistants swooned as Van told them about his son, and showed them photos on his phone. He'd do that with whoever would listen. You stood at his side, arm around his waist, happy. 

In the bookstore you found a picture book called Worries Are Like Clouds. Eventually, when Quinn was old enough, you could use it to help him understand that not all days would be good days, and that's okay. Van handed you book called My Happy Sad Mummy. You flicked through, and it hurt too much to think about. It went back on the shelf. Finally, you selected My Princess Boy. You wanted diversity in the books Quinn would read.

At lunch, Van ate quicker than needed and you knew he was anxious to get home. Pretending to be full, you let Van pay the bill and take your hand. His fingers tapped tunes on the steering wheel, and he glanced over at you.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you, too,"

"And I'm proud of you. You're so, so strong, Y/N. And we're gonna raise the best fuckin' kid ever," he said, eyes back on the road, nodding to himself.

"Yeah. I know."

Cut to a life not unscathed, not unscarred, but beautiful in its mess. A life of love and courage and happy screams of Quinn McCann.


End file.
